


Surrender

by Neshnyt_Jackalsson



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bondage, Flashbacks, PTSD, Panic, Politics, Power Play, Shibari, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neshnyt_Jackalsson/pseuds/Neshnyt_Jackalsson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Near the end of the Siege of Port Arthur, Russia finds himself captured by Japan's forces. Japan takes the opportunity to impress upon Russia the futility of continuing the battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surrender

He heard the unmistakable roar before he saw the shell. It ploughed through the packed dirt of the embankment into the centre of their position and then Russia was staring at the cloudy sky. The screaming had stopped, so had the explosions and yelling. He forced himself to look—most of his men were in pieces, their bodies flung across the dugout like discarded toys. The fortunate ones weren’t moving. Jagged shreds of metal jutted out of his chest like peaks of iron. He coughed, wet and bubbling, and closed his fingers around a vicious-looking shard. His vision flickered and he pulled, feeling rather than hearing the sucking sound as it slid out from between his ribs. Another cough, worse. What good were ribs if they didn’t actually protect the lungs?

When the enemy uniforms swarmed over the ruined bulwark, he fumbled for his pistol, blackness eating away the corners of the world. They beat him to it.

\--

Cold stone. Screaming. Warm, salty liquid at his lips, dribbling down his neck. Dark hair, dark eyes, straight out of nightmares. Agony knifing through his chest. Darkness. Silence.

\--

Hands on his arms, hauling him up. Sitting? Crumpled against something. Hands at his ankles, at his wrists, hands behind his back— His eyes cracked open— _bright_ , after so much dark—when the rope scrapped across his arms. One man in front of him, knotting his crossed ankles together, another behind him securing his wrists, and overseeing the whole affair—

 _“You—”_ he snarled, before a loop slipped over his head and tugged him down- he thrashed, and lightning shot through his lungs, choking him in a whimper. He took small, careful breaths, watched as the rope was secured to his ankles, trapping him like that, bent over, eyes on the ground. Almost in a bow. He had lost his clothes somewhere, stripped down to his briefs. His scarf was gone; the rope dug into the back of his neck, too close to memories for comfort.

The men drew back and he tested the knots. Uncomfortable, but not painful; there was no give. In another situation, he could wrench free if he had to, but now… He took a deeper breath, and felt his ribs rattle. Wincing, he craned his neck to see his captor.

Japan nodded, once. “ _Konnichi wa, Roshia. Watashi wa anata no shougai ga chiyu_ —” One of the men translated, “Hello, Russia. I hope your injuries are healing—” Russia sneered. “—You were almost buried alive. Please understand that we did not have to correct the men in their error.”

If the Asian nation was looking for a thank you, he would have to keep looking. “Why am I here?” he growled, body straining to sit up. Japan hadn’t changed since their last meeting, when they were allied with the Western powers to put down China’s Boxer Rebellion. He had shared in the rewards they had extracted from the battered nation afterwards. It was common knowledge that China had raised Japan; Japan’s participation in the turn-around after the rebellion didn’t sit will in those in Europe. Russia didn’t whisper about it like the rest of them. He understood the desire to seek revenge on a nation that figured prominently in one’s childhood.

Japan spoke again, voice even and calm. "I want to inform you that the battleship Poltava has been sunk. The battleships Retvizan, Pobeda, and Peresvyet have also been sunk, and the two cruisers, the Pallada and the Bayan."

Russia gaped at him, thoughts reeling. "How?" he croaked. The Japanese navy did not outgun his!

What could be a flicker of a smile darted across Japan's lips. His eyes didn't change. "The 203 Meter Hill has been captured and is now in my possession."

The twin summits overlooked the harbour. The 280mm howitzers were loaded with 500kg armour-piercing shells. He swallowed a groan. Japan hadn't even given him the dignity of wiping out the entire Pacific fleet with the Japanese Imperial Navy. No, he used the army, a land force. Wait—

"The Sevastopol."

"Badly damaged. The destroyers are taking care of it as we speak," Japan replied crisply.

Russia dropped his head, neck aching from where the rope bit deeper into his neck. Something trickled down his spine; he hoped it wasn’t blood. The sudden image of rope rubbing down to the bone leapt to mind and he banished the thought. He felt a tension coiling slowly in his back, tried to straighten up and couldn’t, rope catching at his neck.

Something cold slithered into his stomach and a shallow breath left him. He studied the knots at his ankles, how the rope looped around his neck connected, and realized the short length draped loose onto the floor would undo all of it. And he couldn’t reach it.

He forced himself to focus on the slight nation in front of him. “What do you want?” he muttered.

“Port Arthur.”

The flare of indignity burned, but was swamped by the growing cold. “I am not in a position of authority to arrange such a thing even if it were warranted—”

“Please do not misunderstand me, Russia,” Japan interrupted smoothly. “Port Arthur will be mine. I am merely offering you the opportunity to spare the lives of your men. With the loss of the 203 Meter Hill as well as your entire fleet, your defeat is assured.”

“I don’t surrender to uncivilized heathens!” Russia yelled, jerking against the ropes. The small chamber threw back his shout like thunder.

The stillness after the echo faded was absolute. Then Japan stepped forward; all Russia saw was the polished sheen of black dress boots. He could feel Japan’s gaze on his huddled form, the implications unmistakable. He couldn’t sit up. The ache in his neck and back was sinking into his bones like a sickness, cutting his breath short and harsh. He felt a cord inside, a thin wire strung taunt between his ribs, quivering in proximity and memory.

Japan waited.

Russia knew. He tried to be still, tried to quiet the trembling cord and cast his mind out, retreat deep into himself but he hadn’t done that in years, he hadn’t need to. The physical weight of the rope tied him to his body; he shut his eyes to blot out his reflection in the boots but the darkness enveloped him. Eyes open, a shaky exhale, he tried to sit up, the ropes held him. He twisted his wrists, pulling until the circulation left and the knots didn’t give. He bent forward as far as he could, he’d catch the loose rope in his teeth if he had to. He couldn’t reach. The cord vibrated like a plucked string.

“You underestimated me.”

Japan’s voice sounded far above him. He craned his neck, black crawling into the corners of his vision, and saw no higher than Japan’s knees.

“I would not suggest doing it again.”

Japan placed a boot on Russia’s shoulder and shoved. Russia fell back onto his side with a grunt, the loop around his neck keeping his ankles close, doubled up in a bastardization of the fetal position, all security stripped from it to leave him exposed. He tried to sit up, couldn’t even roll over, and felt the cold expand to fill every crevice. His eyes met Japan’s and he used everything he had to hold still, muscles locked.

“Untie me.”

Japan’s expression shifted, the corners of his lips curving up. “No.”

The cord snapped.

“Untie me!” Russia shrieked, panic clawing under his skin. He thrashed, gasping as the wounds in his chest reopened, but he couldn’t relax, the ropes were too tight. Nothing was comfortable, no way to protect himself. The rope dug into his neck—he saw black-haired nomads silhouetted by the fire, jeering at him as he struggled to get near the warmth, the collar choking him. He screamed, desperate fear strangling him, shaking his head in a vain attempt to banish the images, not convinced they could be banished.

Japan watched for a short time, then turned and left.

\--

Japan untied him twenty-two days later, long after Russia had stopped screaming, and informed the haunted nation that General Stoessel and General Foch had offered to surrender. Russia didn’t answer, head bowed, and four days later Japan returned him to his officers at the official surrender.

The vacant look in his eyes unnerved them. They sent him back to Sankt Peterburg, where he stayed until joining the delegates negotiating peace at Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

He didn’t meet Japan’s eyes until the final day of the negotiations.

America didn’t notice. Japan did.

**Author's Note:**

> Shibari without consent is torture--that's what it was originally designed for.


End file.
